


The Blanket Trick

by xylodemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blanket Fic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hugged Cas right there in the open doorway, longer than he probably should, one hand curled around the back of Cas' neck, December gusting inside around them until Sam complained that the wind was blowing his research away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blanket Trick

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on my dash wanted cuddling; somehow that turned into undercover handjobs.
> 
> The episode of _M*A*S*H_ they're watching is 2x02 - _[5 O'clock Charlie](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0638238/)_.

Lebanon, Kansas wasn't exactly white Christmas country, but December opened with a sudden cold snap, the sky gray with thick clouds and the air edged like a knife. The only bad thing about the bunker was that the sheer size of the place made it nearly impossible to heat; the old furnace rumbled like an airplane engine, and it took a good two hours before warm air started pumping up to the ground floor. Dean woke that first morning with stiff joints and numb lips. Frost covered all the windows, and he spent the rest of the day trying to shake the slow chill waiting under his skin.

"Just turn up the thermostat," Sam said reasonably. Which would be fine, except Dean hadn't seen anything around he recognized _as_ a thermostat. And in the year or so they'd lived at the bunker, they'd never lost power or received a utility bill; Dean didn't want to screw that all up just by pushing the wrong button on one of the crazy _2001: A Space Odyssey_ machines in the sub-basement.

The next morning was even colder, Dean shivering and blowing on his hands as he waited for the coffee to brew. After a bit of digging, he found a stack of quilts in one of the bunker's myriad storage closets; there was about twenty of them, in all different sizes and colors, and they looked hand-sewn, the kind of thing the Men of Letters would have brought from home as a reminder of their mothers or wives. He put a blue and green one on his bed, and green and brown one on Sam's, and tossed two more or less matching red and white ones on the couch. Near the bottom of the stack, he found one in orange and yellow squares that made him think of _Little House on the Prairie_ for some reason, and he started wearing it like a cloak, folding it over his head and shoulders and holding it closed under his chin with one hand.

Sam laughed and called him Linus. "You look ridiculous," he said on the third or fourth day, shaking his head as Dean slouched in from the kitchen, a bowl of soup in his free hand and the end of his quilt tangled around his feet.

"At least I'm not wearing pink mittens on my gigantor hands."

\--

Cas arrived at the bunker at the end of the week. He looked tired and rumpled and smelled like two days on a Greyhound bus, and Dean hugged him right there in the open doorway, longer than he probably should, one hand curled around the back of Cas' neck, December gusting inside around them until Sam complained that the wind was blowing his research away.

"We don't even have a case," Dean said. Technically, they still had a shitload of renegade angels to deal with, but they'd decided to take a break from that for a couple of weeks, just long enough for Sam to recover from Ezekiel ditching out of him.

Cas slept for seventeen hours straight, buried under a pile of blankets, one a green and yellow quilt he stole from Dean's stash. When he finally woke up, he took a shower that nearly killed the hot water, then slipped into life at the bunker like he belonged there, his humanity still rough around the edges, but smoother than it'd been at Rexford in a way that made Dean feel proud and guilty at once. He was useless without two cups of coffee in the morning, and he preferred sweet things for breakfast, and he was somehow even nerdier about books than Sam. He was also incredibly irritable about the cold; he started walking around wrapped in a quilt the same way Dean did, but his quilt was larger than Dean's, so a good half a yard of it dragged behind him like the train on a wedding dress, snagging on the furniture and tripping up his feet.

There wasn't much to do when they weren't hunting, which was how Dean and Cas ended up celebrating Cas' first week at the bunker by watching _M*A*S*H_ reruns, sitting on opposite ends of the couch and cocooned in their frontier quilts like weird, backwoods burritos. Kevin was dozing in the chair beside the fireplace, his mouth hanging open and his tablet research spread out around him, some spilling out of his lap and the rest scattered on the floor by his feet. The fire he'd started earlier was burning low, hissing and popping as the charred logs cracked.

"I don't understand," Cas said, frowning at the TV. "If the man in the airplane is going to bomb them, why aren't they leaving?"

"Because they know he's going to miss. He's been trying for weeks, and he hasn't hit anything yet."

They watched in silence for a few minutes, then Cas shivered, huffing under his breath as he clutched his quilt closer.

"Are you cold?"

"I'm always cold." Cas sighed and tugged at his quilt again. "Before, I was unaware of the ambient temperature, but now -- "

"Just come here," Dean said, patting the space beside him. "You won't be cold if we -- you know, body heat."

Cas slid across the couch, settling close enough that his thigh was pressed flush with Dean's. On the TV, Frank tried to convince Colonel Blake to buy an anti-aircraft gun; Dean ignored the thread of warmth in his gut, forcing his hands steady as he rearranged the quilts.

"This way, we both get both blankets, see?"

Nodding, Cas turned back to the TV. The general showed up, then got cockblocked by Frank while trying to grope Margaret, then took Hawkeye, Trapper, and Colonel Blake on a jeep ride, but Dean wasn't really paying attention. He could smell Cas this close, laundry detergent and the Ivory soap in the bunker's showers, and he could see Cas' face from the corner of his eye, the angle of his nose and the sharp cut of his jaw. He wanted, badly, to trace those lines with his mouth, to feel Cas' stubble under his lips, leave a mark on Cas' skin.

The general's jeep exploded with a loud bang; Kevin made a snuffling noise, stirring just enough to rub at his face, and Cas cocked his head to one side. "I think Frank will get his gun now."

"What? Oh, yeah. He'll get it, but then he'll fuck it all up."

Cas shifted a little, enough that the quilts started to fall away from him; Dean reached his arm across Cas' shoulder to catch them, and Cas curled closer to Dean once he got them settled, tucking himself against Dean's side before Dean could pull his arm back. On the TV, Trapper was leading Hawkeye and Radar on a bizarre parade while dressed as General MacArthur. Dean's arousal was a living thing, twisting in his gut and knotting in the center of his chest; he turned his head slightly, half terrified and half determined, unsure of what he meant to do, a startled noise catching in the back of his throat when Cas' hand slid up the inside of his thigh. 

"My hand is cold."

Dean almost laughed. They'd been circling around this for years -- he knew that much, even if he'd never been able to make himself act on it -- and after all the wanting and waiting, there was something faintly ridiculous about it happening now, with Kevin sleeping five feet away and his brother knocking around one of the storage rooms downstairs and Frank Burns on the TV waving a miniature plunger at Hawkeye Pierce. "Really, Cas?"

"No," Cas admitted, his tone completely unapologetic. "You once told me that when humans really, really want something, they lie."

Dean couldn't really argue with that, not when Cas' hand was sliding up to curve over his cock. Cas squeezed a little, then stroked Dean up and down, then squeezed again, closer to the base. His eyes were still on the TV, but he tipped his head onto Dean's shoulder, his hair tickling the side of Dean's neck. He stroked Dean up and down again, making a soft, pleased noise when Dean's hips twitched up, chasing after the pressure. It felt like high school, like standing in a dark corner with his date, trying to get his hand up her sweater at a party without anyone around them noticing; Kevin mumbled in his sleep and Cas' hand stilled and Dean choked on a noise thrumming with desperation.

"Quiet," Cas whispered, thumbing the button of Dean's jeans. He didn't bother pulling Dean's cock out, just slipped his hand into Dean's underwear and wrapped his hand around it. On the TV, the enemy airplane sputtered across the screen as everyone at the 4077th watched, and Dean closed his eyes, biting his lip as he worked his hips, fucking up into Cas' tight, sweaty fist. Cas rubbed his thumb over the head, catching the precome beading at the slit, and Dean's thighs started to shake, heat coiling sharp and tight at the base of his spine. He twisted his wrist as his hand slid down, a move that almost seemed practiced, and Dean felt another flare of heat as he realized Cas was probably touching him the same way he touched himself. 

Dean started to picture it, Cas in the bathroom at the Gas & Sip, maybe standing in front of the mirror, one hand braced on the sink as he worked himself with the other; he would've looked beautiful, his head thrown back and his quiet noises echoing off the tiles. The TV faded to black as the episode came to an end, and Cas turned his head enough to press his mouth to the corner of Dean's jaw, not really a kiss, just a huff of breath and a flutter of lips, and Dean wrapped his hand around Cas', squeezing, wanting more of anything, everything. He came hard and fast, sticky over his own cock, his heart hammering in his chest, unable to breathe.

The room was practically dark now; the fire had finally died out, and the TV was showing the DVD menu screen. Turning sideways on the couch, Dean caught Cas by the front of his shirt and pulled, hard enough that Cas went sprawling into his lap. They kissed then, Dean's hand splayed at the back of Cas' neck, his fingers threading into Cas' hair; Cas' lips parted, and he sucked on Dean's tongue, and he made helpless, greedy noises into Dean's mouth as he rubbed his cock against the swell of Dean's thigh. They ended up sliding down the couch, until Dean was lying on his back with Cas stretched out on top of him, and Dean fumbled his hand between them, trying to get at the zipper of Cas' jeans, but Cas wouldn't stop fucking against him, wouldn't stop mumbling Dean's name into the hollow of his throat. He came with a long, slow shudder, his back arching and his eyes closing and his thumb pressed to the corner of Dean's mouth.

\--

Dean woke up hot and sweaty and confused. He was on the couch with Cas snoring into his neck; his right leg was numb to the knee and Sam was standing over him with a suspiciously blank look on his face.

"Good morning," Sam said, his mouth twitching at the corners.

"Morning."

There was a short, tight silence; Dean hoped Sam wasn't going to be an smug asshole about this before he'd had his coffee.

Sam cleared his throat. Twice. "I just wanted to tell you I found the thermostat."

"Okay."

"Also: I told you so."

Dean groped around on the floor for something to throw at Sam, but Cas shifted against him, murmuring into Dean's neck and pushing his morning wood into Dean's hip, so Dean rolled him over against the back of the couch and kissed him awake instead.


End file.
